


Trade Off

by Grenegome



Category: Dresden Files - All Media Types, Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Kinkmeme, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:53:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grenegome/pseuds/Grenegome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcone understands the power of gifts, but Kincaid makes sure they’re even.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trade Off

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dresden Files Kink Meme.

“Kincaid,” the kid called from the kitchen, “I can’t reach the cookies.”

“They’re bad for you,” I said, not looking up from the laptop. An _incorrect user name or password_ message on its screen didn’t seem to find me intimidating. Fortunately, the kid’s a lot scarier than me. “Hey, did I ever write down my internet banking password?”

If the code was in Ivy’s head then I could stop wracking my brain for clues. I didn’t even need the entire thing; the log in screen was demanding the second, third and fifth characters of a security phrase. I’m not sure when mortal money-hoarders got a taste for riddles, but maybe the bank had been bought out by dragons. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“They aren’t detrimental as part of a nutritionally balanced diet,” Ivy said, reappearing in the doorway to the kitchen. She’d been as tall as my shoulder for a while now, but still I nearly blinked, the glimpses of adulthood in her face making me... well, I wouldn’t call it scared; men as old and as occupationally violent as myself don’t get scared, but it still felt like time was playing a trick on me every time I looked over to see her teetering on the edge of physical maturity. In my head, she was perpetually seven years old, tiny and lisping and powerful. Reality kept contradicting me. “And your security phrase was obscene, I’m not repeating it.”

“Oops,” I said, recalling the words immediately. “Yeah, don’t.” I typed it in and was greeted by my bank balance. “The baron’s punctual,” I told her. “Knew he would be.”

“Of course. He’s a man of his word.” Ivy grabbed the chair next to me, apparently ready to haul it into the kitchen to aid her in her quest for chocolate chip treasure. She could magic them down, the same way anyone else with her firepower could take what they wanted... but then no one else with her firepower would think to want them.

“A mafia man, short stuff. I know he’s soft on kids, but he’s no Harry Dresden. Guys like him, you watch closely. You don’t show weakness.”

“ _You_ shouldn’t, perhaps,” Ivy said. “Weakness from me only triggered his protective instincts.” Her words sounded like textbook Ivy; a calm, matter of fact reference to something she knew, but they tore straight through me anyway. Ivy hadn’t known that, she’d _learned_ it. I felt the familiar rage boil up, a bloody, mindless wrath that Ivy had ever needed protecting, that she’d been scooped up and--

“I shan’t need them again, Kincaid,” Ivy said, calm.

No, she’d made that clear as soon as she’d recovered. Ivy had made me drive her out into the wilderness, hike half way through a damn forest, and then proceeded to shred everything within half a mile of us with every piece of combat magic ever seen. Every spell she’d never worked. Cast once, and perfected, and held close for the future. She wouldn’t be taken again.

I knew the only thing keeping Ivy from looking inside her head and locating every last bastard one of them was her neutrality. She couldn’t use what she knew to take people to shreds, not and remain the Archive. But I’ve never been so damn tempted to ask her to, to watch her slip the collar of her function and wreak havoc.

I could feel her gaze on me, quiet and assessing. I looked up and met her eyes. “Punctual _and_ generous,” she said, without looking at the laptop. “The baron paid you twice.” I looked down, surprised, and clicked into the monthly statement option.

“Sonuvabitch,” I mumbled. So he had.

 

As it turned out, unless you were currently involved in business with Marcone or you happened to be the bad tempered wizard he so obviously had the hots for, he wasn’t an easy man to get on the phone. I spent fifteen minutes getting the run around from a couple of his secretaries, and let me tell you, there’s no subtle way of saying _does your boss know he overpaid the hired gun he needed last weekend?_ It’s not the kind of thing I was keen on discussing with a lackey, not when I didn’t know how _in the know_ they were. Eventually, I gave up. Only temporarily, because while you don’t show weakness to a man like Marcone, it’s not a brilliant idea to take his money and run either. I like Chicago; I have the kind of fun there that’s harder to find in hostile territory. Not that hostile isn’t its own kind of fun. Anyway, I was due a visit to Chicago on Saturday, to pick up some of Mac’s finest, and maybe swing by Murphy’s place. I could always make a stop to straighten things out with Marcone.

Not that they got very straight, really. Kind of the opposite.

I couldn’t exactly call Murphy and ask where Marcone was, not without making her feel obligated to ask a lot of questions she didn’t want the answer to. So I rang Dresden instead, and after a lot of huffing and puffing and protestations of _why would I know_ , and _call him yourself_ , I convinced him to ring Marcone and tell him I wanted to pay a visit. Eventually, Dresden got back to me with a location and a couple of snarled insults that had me biting at my cheek in an attempt not to laugh. Dresden was going to be a power in his own right by the time he hit his first century, but for the time being he was fucking hilarious. Easier to wind up than a clockwork soldier.

“Thanks, Dresden. I’ll give him your love.”

“Fuck off Kincaid. Give it to Ivy,” he said. And then hung up on me. His first century might teach him some manners too, but I doubt it. Not when half the nasties on the block already tried and failed to beat some into him.

I was expected by the time I turned up at Executive Priority, and I was met at the door by Hendricks, Marcone’s red headed shadow. He jerked his head to indicate I should follow, and then shambled off down a corridor, ignoring the slick suits and gym bunnies passing through the foyer. A chatty man, Hendricks.

I moved at my own pace, stopping to run my eyes across people and furnishings, idly totalling up the worth of outfits and random pieces of art. The place stank of wealth. I said as much when I was finally shown into his lordship’s presence. “Doesn’t all the opulence bring you out in hives?”

I could feel Hendricks’ eyes trying to bore through the back of my head and prise out any hostile thoughts that might be lurking in my brain. I kept my posture relaxed, my hands in view. Marcone was doing much the same, sitting in his office chair, hands folded on the desk in front of him. “I’ve grown accustomed to it,” he said, with a warm welcoming smile that didn’t touch his eyes. He watched me, cold and patient. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Kincaid?”

“To your shitty arithmetic,” I said. “I agreed to a one-off job, Baron. I’m not on retainer.”

“Retainer?” Marcone repeated, all honest puzzlement. “Ah. Your bonus.”

Bonus? I had the wordings of all my contracts memorised, and not a one of them mentioned bonuses. “That wasn’t a bonus Marcone, it was a fucking salary.” Sometimes I got my swear on when I was out of the kid’s earshot; it wasn’t often I got to play with the grownups by myself.

“I believe in positive reinforcement, Mr Kincaid. You did excellent work, and I make it a rule to reward such work.”

“Yeah? Well a gold star and a pat on the head would’ve done just fine. I did what you paid me for, and I charge what I’m worth. You start throwing money at me for simple competence, I could get offended.” Not to mention indebted. In the circles we moved in, it was a bad idea to let yourself be indulged. I’d take a simple, well balanced transaction any day over anything that smacked of _favor_.

Marcone tilted his head. “Men who sell themselves for a living rarely object to additional remuneration. It wasn’t my intent to offend you.”

“Sell myself?” I said, with a grin. “You almost sound like you disapprove. Funny, considering our surroundings.” Brothels. Even dressed up in the 21st century, the underlying sent of furtive lust was still there.

Marcone didn’t react to that, just continued the conversation without batting an eyelid. “Do you intend to return it?”

“Well, I don’t particularly _want_ to,” I said, because there were an awful lot of shiny guns I could buy with my unexpected windfall, “but unless you give me a way to earn it before...” I checked my watch, “three, then yeah. Gimmie the details and I’ll sort a transfer.”

“Before three,” Marcone mused. “I don’t think I can find adequate use for a mercenary in forty minutes. I’m sadly lacking in enemy bases for you to storm.”

I shrugged. “I have other talents. I’m not always a frontal assault guy like Dresden. I’m a bit more... flexible.”

That earned me a reaction. Well, a blink. “I run establishments like this, Mr Kincaid, I don’t patronise them.”

I burst out laughing. “Right, paying for sex is a no no, paying me to do... what I do,” _kill_ , ”that’s just fine. Your head must be a weird place to live, Marcone.” I shrugged. “Pity, would’ve been the easiest pay I’ve earned in a while.”

“You set a rather high value on your skills, Mr Kincaid. Do you practice often?”

I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought there might have been an insult in there somewhere. I gave Marcone one of my old smiles, all teeth and sharp eyes. Behind me, the man-mountain shifted. Clever boy, he could sense a predator with its claws out.

“Not often, no,” I said, not quite dropping the feral smile that fit so comfortably on my features. “But you know what they say, Marcone; oldest trade in the world. And the world’s awfully old.” Granted, _I_ wasn’t quite that old, but Marcone wouldn’t know that. A little mystique never hurt anyone.

I could tell I had his interest; his attention held a surprising weight for a vanilla mortal. They usually weren’t able to focus it so well, but there was enough evident will in Marcone’s eyes that it was more like staring down a wizard than a mobster. I was being assessed.

“I see. The benefit of experience,” he said, after a brief contemplation. It sounded kind of like he’d made his decision.

“You bet. Come on Marcone, I wasn’t kidding about three o’clock, I’ve got places to be. Bank transfer details or sexual favor of your choice, cough up.”

“Are we still covered by the stipulations of your contract?”

“Non disclosure and no hostilities? Yeah.” I thought about that for a moment, about what a man like Marcone might like, but was brought up short by the fact I’d _never_ known a man like Marcone. “Unless of course you request hostilities. I’m not fussy.”

That almost bought me a smile in return, but instead Marcone just dismissed his guard dog; “Mr. Hendricks, if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside?” Hendricks went, silently. I could almost feel the disapproval radiating from him.

This was shaping up to be a promising afternoon. A quick, well paid tumble with a mortal lord and then a night in with Murphy and a lazy Sunday in her bed. “What’s your pleasure?” I asked.

Marcone didn’t quite shrug. I guess Gentlemen don’t. “I don’t have the necessary paraphernalia on hand for anything too involved.”

I snorted in disbelief. “We’re in a brothel! Send your goon for-- ”

“No. He’d never forgive me. Your mouth, Mr Kincaid, if you’re agreeable.”

“If I’m gonna suck you off in your office, we lose the the Mister.”

“Kincaid, then. If you will?”

Marcone pushed his chair away from his desk and sat back comfortably, a clear invitation if ever I saw one. I didn’t even take the time to circle the desk, just sprang straight over it and had an entertaining half a second of watching Marcone start to tense, ready to defend himself, before deliberately relaxing when I dropped to my knees. Nothing like a bit of adrenaline to spice up a blow job.

It didn’t need much spicing; I could feel Marcone ready and waiting for me, as soon as I lay hands on his fly. “Eager,” I grinned up at him. Maybe he didn’t get to do this very often. Last time I bothered to check, organized crime syndicates weren’t so keen on men that liked getting hot and heavy with other men. One of the handy things about being a lone operative, you don’t get tied into bizarre social norms, like only fucking if you fuck a woman in the missionary position on a Sunday, or whatever it was they considered _normal_ in this decade.

My suspicions were confirmed by the choked off little groan Marcone tried to stifle when I eased him out and swallowed him down. Yeah, he hadn’t done this in a while. I had a sudden urge to make it _good_ , to muss him up a little with the kind of pleasure that’d stick with him every time he laid eyes on me. I grinned around my work and peeked upwards, meeting Marcone’s wide eyed stare. He had surprisingly pretty eyes, and I bet no-one’s ever dared to tell him. Mob bosses aren’t allowed to be pretty. Crying shame.

I wanted to see if I could darken the faded green of Marcone’s eyes, if I could get him to bite down on his bottom lip trying to keep all those urgent noises from escaping.

It wasn’t much of a challenge. I’m not saying he was a hair-trigger adolescent or anything, but I tricked a low groan out of him with the point of my tongue tracing the head of his dick, my fingers brushing against his balls. I didn’t really have to _work_ for it. In the end Marcone jerked, made a noise disturbingly like the gasp of a man who’s just been shot, and came hard into my mouth. I drank him down. After all, I’d promised no hostilities, it’d be irresponsible to leave vital fluids all over the place.

Marcone sprawled back in his chair, breathing heavy, his gaze slightly shocked when it landed on me, like he wasn’t quite clear what had just happened. I sat back on my heels, gave him a grand total of five seconds of afterglow, and then said, “Satisfied?” with a raised brow.

“En- ,” Marcone voice rasped on the first attempt, and he cleared his throat as he refastened his fly, “entirely.”

“Good,” I said, and then stood, stretching out the kinks in my limbs.

“Kincaid, I’m happy to- ” Marcone gestured at the bulge in my trousers inarticulately.

“Costs you extra,” I said cheerfully. “But some other time, maybe. I’m saving it for my three o’clock.” I gave him a wink, turned on my heel, and gave Hendricks a thumbs up on my way out the door. Red slipped straight into Marcone’s office behind me, so I saw myself out, whistling.


End file.
